Spectacle
by chiisana-inori
Summary: An unexpected spark from the girl on fire becomes the very thing that consumes him. Seneca-centric.
1. a spark

**Spectacle**

* * *

He watched in silence as the courtyard below him shrank with each passing second. It was a habit of his when taking the glass elevator to his private office. He wondered what part he took pleasure in exactly—seeing things so small or being so high up.

At this hour, the courtyard was usually bustling with workers, shoppers, and children. It came as no surprise to him that at the moment it was empty. Everything he encountered in the day had been eerily devoid of life; the streets, the lobby, the elevator he was currently in. Today was special, after all. Today, the entire Capitol was glued to their tele-sets for the most anticipated time of the year.

A cheerful female voice floating from the intercom announced the floor as the elevator came to a smooth halt. He stepped out into the hallway and glanced at his watch but his pace remained unhurried. While the rest of the Capitol reveled in Reaping Day, he only felt bored indifference. It a necessary but predictable affair and predictability was not his style, not as Head Gamemaker for the third year in a row. There was an unavoidable swell of pride in his chest at this; consecutive terms were rare for the coveted post and accomplishing it at his age was another feat in itself.

But his was not a charmed life. For every glamorous night out, he spent three more alone and fueled by stimulants, scribbling down ideas then ripping them up; trying to find a way to outdo the previous Game. As hard as the climb to the top was, a fall from grace would be easy. It was something that haunted the back of his mind constantly.

For now, he was at peace, certain than the approaching 74th Games was his best effort yet. He spent a month traveling and researching before he selected the forest design. It was a suitable choice with several inherent qualities, but in truth, its savage beauty was what first caught his eye and drew him in. The densely packed trees, array of animals, and rich earth held on to him, long after he left. He wanted to recapture that unadulterated wilderness. It had been too long since the Games focused on the simple brutality of the massacre, the hunters and the hunted. Of course, this didn't keep him from stowing a few tricks up his sleeve; personal touches in case anything went awry.

"Marvelous job, Seneca." President Snow remarked earlier that morning. He clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, an indulgent gesture not doled out often. "Now, go rest and enjoy the Reaping along with everyone else, won't you?"

He resigned to this but dismissed the thought of attending any of the extravagant Viewing Parties being thrown. A dull affair like the Reaping would be much easier to bear without carting around a social veneer for hours.

Once alone in his office, where he was certain no one would bother him, he relaxed considerably. He undid the topmost button of his collar, poured himself a drink, and sank into his wingback chair. With a press of a button, the tele-set flickered to life. He had made it in time for the first Reapings, if they could be called that. District One and Two regarded the punishment as a trendy show of bravery and their children vied for a chance to be in the Games. This year's Career Tributes were the made from the same mold as the ones before them; perfect physical specimens, immaculately groomed and brimming with confidence. They were killing machines that behaved like pageant contestants. He grimaced. He wouldn't trust being alone in a room with any one of those ruthless brats.

The enthusiasm was not mutual in the other Districts, where there were only shabby stages, bleak faces, and certain death. They lacked the skills, the bravado, and the reckless abandon of the wealthier Districts. A hard life was still worth living by their standards. Out of the chosen, a good number broke down in shock. Others met their fate with grim compliance and a stiff gait to the scaffold-turned-stage.

_Pathetic_, he thought with disgust. Half the Districts had been Reaped by this point and it looked dismal. He had seen it happen before. A disappointing crop of Tributes could detract heavily from the overall quality of the Games. But there was still hope. He noticed a few favorable ones in the pool- ones with strong or sprightly bodies, or even more promising; hardened eyes with a desire to win at any cost.

By his fourth glass of wine (his head was beginning to get foggy), the end was drawing near. It was District Twelve's Reaping and his thoughts were already drifting to methodically planning out the menu for dinner. He nearly missed the first drawing as a result. At first, he wasn't sure which one out of the sea of faces was selected until they began to part and turn to stare at an impossibly frail child with blond plaits. District Twelve always had an unfortunate streak in Tributes. This one wouldn't last more than five minutes in his arena.

The girl stood frozen, oblivious to the escort's repeated attempts to get her to come up to the stage. She finally gathered her wits and was slowly making her way to the podium when an unearthly shriek split the air.

"**I volunteer! I volunteer as Tribute!"**

He upset his drink all over his hand in surprise. Outsiders protesting, crying in disbelief, begging for mercy; it was all very common. But _volunteering_ from a poor District was almost unheard of. And the sound of her voice… something about it unnerved him. Just as well, the outburst provoked a flurry of confusion. Peacekeepers rushed out to hold back a frantic young woman as she broke from the crowds. The District Twelve escort paused, clearly unsure of the protocol in such a situation. This was quickly amended: the substitute was allowed on stage while the other was forcibly taken away.

"What's your name?" the Capitol lady crooned to the newcomer. The camera took this opportunity to zoom in on her face.

"Katniss Everdeen." There was a slight trembling in her voice but she looked straight ahead. Slate grey eyes seemed to pierce right through him. He recalled that they were common in that region but unlike the past Tributes from District Twelve they were not lifeless and cold. They were like a cornered animal's, burning with the will to survive.

Well. That was enough of that. He didn't bother to stay around for the announcement of the male Tribute and clicked off the screen. The ghostly after-image of the girl glowed briefly before vanishing.

He rose to his feet, sighing as his joints creaked from disuse, and wandered over to the drink cart for something to sop up the mess he made. Instead, he found himself looking out the window as evening set on the Capitol, the last scene replaying in his head.

It was strange. All he had ever done his entire life was protect and serve his own interests but the selfless act struck a chord with him. He knew better than most what the girl was getting herself into the second she volunteered. He also knew that she still had a chance. The girl could become a fan favorite, if she played her cards right. For a bloodthirsty breed, sponsors were notorious for enjoying a good sob story.

He would have to keep an eye on this Katniss Everdeen. Judging by her sweeping entrance into the Games, she was going to be trouble. Unpredictable. An imperceptible smile reflected in the glass. He liked that.

* * *

**AN: **I really couldn't resist contributing to this crack pairing. Ever since I saw the movie, I was sold on it. Anyways, thank you reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is much appreciated. :)

**Chiisana-inori**


	2. where there's smoke

**/**

* * *

He never developed any sort of interest in Tributes before. He was a man of details. People naturally fell on the wayside and these children were no exception. There were so many of them anyway, and they disappeared quickly, like shallow imprints in the sand.

In any given year, even the more recent ones, there was no specific name or face that particularly stuck out to him. If he needed information on past Tributes, there was a tidy record readily available with practical data; name, age, sex, District, ranking, and death. A little more effort and tapes could be dug up; a whole history of tactics and betrayal and bloodbath. So it was unnecessary and impractical to remember on one's own.

Tributes were nothing but mere players in the little world he created, sent to tear each other to pieces.

Although he was not one to understand it, becoming attached was something that occurred often and easily during the Hunger Season. There were Gamemakers who cultivated a fondness for certain Tributes, Stylists who bragged about their charges, Mentors who drank themselves to oblivion when the cannon sounded, and viewers at home who obsessively tracked their wagers or favorites. That was the beauty of it; entertainment, drama. The very life and sustenance of the Games were these fleeting notions of sympathy and affection.

The grey eyed volunteer from Twelve, however, was proving to be an exception. He would not forget her. No one would. Just as he predicted, her name was on everyone's lips like a strange exotic fruit. The notoriety of Reaping spread like wildfire and persisted for days. He basked in the glow of it; the 74th Games would have a place in history. Win or lose, live or die, the girl had done him a great service.

He never developed any sort of interest in Tributes before. And then he found himself abandoning his scribbles for the night; a waiting car downstairs and a ticket to the Opening Ceremonies tucked in his jacket.

* * *

"... a noble sacrifice. It brought tears to my eyes when she…"

"… terribly disappointed that I didn't get a glimpse of her at the train station…"

"... this year will be _simply_ monumental, I'm telling you..."

Under different circumstances, he would have been amongst the Gamemakers as they talked and joked and drank a toast to the Games, but tonight he was distracted. Not as if he was a perfect example of serenity the rest of the time. Every minute of his day seemed to be absorbed in an agenda of deadlines and appointments and even when he was given a pause, he was mindfully rearranging or musing over it. It didn't bother him; quite opposite, he preferred being kept busy with a purposeful schedule. Unfortunately, the preoccupation at the moment had nothing to do with what he was familiar with; interviews, dinner parties, blueprints and the like. In an effort to subdue his thoughts, he concentrated on the procession going on below.

Pulled in fine chariots, the Tributes trickled into view by order of District. The audience cooed and clapped appreciatively but he looked on in distaste; each one looked more ridiculous than the last. While he agreed that a welcoming Parade at the Opening Ceremonies made perfect sense, the costumes it traditionally entailed did not. There were only so many ways to fashion an industry-inspired outfit before they became stale or worse yet, bizarre. He suppressed a scoff at the most recent arrival, mentally granting a punishment to Four's Prep Team for their atrocious use of netting and starfish. The Tributes looked like they had been recently shipwrecked so he deemed it would only be fair to have whoever was responsible for that to be marooned on an island.

He drummed his fingers in a tense staccato on his knee. He was in a wicked mood all right. Something about simply being present made him feel distinctly uncomfortable, like his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Tributes, he noted, underwent an interesting change in between the Reaping and the Opening Ceremonies that went deeper than getting scrubbed clean and decently dressed. It was a palpable shift in demeanor. He would not have guessed that these children, beaming and vigorously waving to the crowds, would be sent like lambs to the slaughter in less than a week but he knew why.

It was the reason they weren't simply shipped from their homes and thrown into the arena; why the Parade and the interviews and the spectacle of it all were so popular. Carnage was a bitter pill to swallow and the dark Hunger Games were made friendly and palatable this way. It was up to them to keep a happy facade for the Capitol, with sponsorships as the reward for those who played along.

He turned his gaze to the audience, all too content in taking their medicine. Unlike them, he was not there to believe but to see.

The District Twelve Tribute. Miss Everdeen. _Katniss_. His mouth turned down slightly in consternation. He didn't know what to make of this girl or his puzzling regard for her. Against all odds, a tiny seed of interest managed to take root and was beginning to grow. It was not a good diagnosis for someone who was prone to obsessive compulsions, the same ones that made him a success.

Surely he was much too level-headed to catch the same fever that had swept the Capitol. Surely he would be able to look past her noble intentions and pretty face and see that she was nothing more than a worthless girl from the Outer Districts, a pawn destined to die at his hands. Surely he would return to his normal, impervious, unfeeling self.

(Surely, surely, surely—once repeated enough, words lost all meaning.)

As he got dressed before going out hours before, he convinced himself that attending the Opening Ceremonies would be antidote of sorts. She would be demystified once formally introduced as a representative of the Games, in an awful coal mining costume at that, as just one of the many. He would see that Katniss Everdeen was not special. The pieces would snap into place and he would be able to resume his duties, free of troublesome thoughts.

If only.

He had not counted on the District Twelve Stylists to achieve such a startling transformation. It was quite impressive. In a gold chariot drawn by night-black horses and wrapped in an ethereal blaze, they looked more like gods than mortals.

The clamoring throng showered them with flowers and chanted their names so loud that his ears thrummed. He had never witnessed such a fierce outpouring of adoration. It made him wary. And as if the attention was not already squarely placed on them, the male Tribute from Twelve clasped their hands together and raised it high over their heads. A triumphant, unifying gesture, but he found himself focusing on her alone.

She was not the same girl from the Reaping, the one with the faded blue dress hanging on her slight frame, dark wisps coming loose from her braid and terror in her eyes. Just as metal was heated until it became pure and strong, the past few days had only served to refine her. What he found most intriguing, what outshone even her fiery cloak, was her smile. It flashed from the huge telescreen banners strung up as far as the eye could see, alluring and enigmatic as a queen's. The crowd practically swooned; failing to notice what he had- the cold steel behind it.

They were like wayward moths being drawn to her bright flame, and, he realized with growing dismay, so was he.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for all of the lovely reviews! I'm happy to know that so many of you enjoy the story so far and I hope this chapter was to your liking. Just letting you know, this fic will be mostly introspective with little action or dialogue. I'm going to publish another lighter Seneca x Katniss AU story soon so keep an eye out for that.

**Chiisana inori**


	3. up in flames

**/**

* * *

He wanted to be a Gamemaker ever since he was a boy. The artistic composition that went into the Hunger Games was inherently fascinating to him. Just as colors, strokes, and subjects were carefully crafted into a painting, so was every carnivorous plant, acid fog, and Tracker Jacker incorporated with an aesthetic eye and devoted hand.

He was not a typical Capitol child in that sense. Being a Stylist or an Escort was considered more glamorous. They were allowed to travel, able to form personal relationships with the Tributes, and if they were popular enough; became household names. No one under a double digit age was very interested in the intricate mechanics of the Games, nor did it translate to much fun when playing make believe. As esteemed as Gamemaking was, the sheer demand it required was highly disproportionate with the intense schooling and cutthroat competition. Those who joined for the glory never stayed long. Because the work was mostly done in advance throughout the year with the rest accomplished in a private Control Room, Gamemakers were reduced to bit players in the broadcasts and generally kept to themselves. Outside of elite social circles, they were largely anonymous; tireless cogs and springs that worked in mysterious ways.

The only time the curtain was pulled back and due attention was given was during the Interviews. It was not as highly regarded as the main events of the evening but at seven years old (the age his parents deemed he was old enough to watch the Games in their entirety), he sat attentively on his heels in front of the tele-set as Head Gamemaker Cassius Morrow came on screen. He was completely starstruck by the imposing figure in red and black. The other Gamemakers had already been interviewed but this was different; this was the man President Snow had personally chosen to captain the most important event of the year. His appearance alone summoned a roar of applause and Caesar Flickerman, who was polite to everyone, had a reserved admiration in his eyes as they shook hands.

The Game that year was phenomenal. He was completely captivated from start to finish. Before the Victor was even crowned, he had already made up his mind. He declared to his amused parents, "I'm gonna be a Gamemaker when I grow up. No—_Head Gamemaker_. I'll pick the arena and make up the traps and meet Caesar Flickerman!" He slept soundly that night; wonderful visions playing in his head of the things he could create.

His childish dreams did not stay childish for long. He studied hard, found the right connections and after years of toiling away and bowing and scraping, the only desire he ever had was attained. His first Interview had been surreal to say the least. The hot glare of the spotlights, the thousand glittering eyes of the audience, the one and only Caesar Flickerman seated beside him was like a fantasy come true. When he was fresh and new, he was certain there was no better feeling in the world than becoming the kind of man he grew up idolizing. But years later, with the exacting work and mounting stress beginning to wear him down, he could feel the rumblings of discontent in the distance. Small vibrations as they were while he was still in his prime and enjoying himself, he knew they would only grow closer and stronger as time passed.

That was the funny thing about the human condition; fulfillment only left a hole bigger than the one it filled. It was only a matter of time before it would be replaced by something else.

* * *

After being interviewed, he was ushered into a private green room to relax and enjoy the rest of the live taping via tele-set. Though it gave no indication of individual performance in the Games, he liked the Tribute Interviews for what it was; strategy disguised as gratuitous entertainment.

What set it apart from the similarly extravagant Parade was the fact that it was more like a staged play than an actual interview. The Tributes were dressed to the nines and spoke with the fluency of actors, playing up their 'persona'. It was a tactic taught by Mentors to ingratiate themselves with the viewers in the short span of time they were allotted. Being memorable and likeable was key. The characters never deviated much from the standard fare; beauty queens, brutes, strong-and-silent types, shy flowers and sly foxes. A few were a bit more ambiguous, but in the end, they were always a little glossier than the truth.

One by one, the Tributes took center stage. They spoke about the family they left back at home, their first impressions of the Capitol, their inflated good odds. Caesar would quip back good-naturedly and the audience would laugh. It was the same thing twenty times over. His cursory interest waned as the ice in his whiskey began to melt. Focus and patience were supposed to be the strongest virtues in a Gamemaker and he found that at the moment he was sorely lacking in both.

Try as he might, he couldn't keep his thoughts from drifting back to his own interview. Just moments ago, he had been asked of his opinion of the current crop of Tributes and without thinking, he mentioned her. It was a small slip of the tongue that he instantly regretted. He knew he could do little to rein in his curiosity. Whenever it did manifest itself, a dull pressure built up on the bridge of his nose, the kind that usually occured when he was elbow-deep in work and hit a mental block. Pinching the afflicted area and taking a breather away from the problem for an hour or two would cure it, but the current pangs radiating between his eyes could not be as easily fixed. Avoiding her, given their roles, would be impractical with the next few days of training and evaulation followed by strict supervision during the Games. He needed all of his mental faculties in working order to make it through the next few weeks and fretting over such a non-issue would just exacerbate things. The only solution was to ride out the fever with as much professionalism and dignity as he could muster.

(The impatience he was experiencing as he waited for her appearance notwithstanding.)

She looked quite stunning in a scarlet silk gown that aged her beyond her sixteen years. It was the type of dress he would see at a fancy social function; vastly different from the revolutionary costume she wore to the Opening Ceremonies until she treated Caesar and the audience with a twirl in her dress and synthetic flames spurred to life. They licked up her skirt faster and brighter with every spin, to the delight of all. So this was going to be a theme.

Hearing her voice for the second time was odd; like taking a miscalculated step. Of course, the first he heard her speak, it had been choked with emotion. Now her words were carefully chosen, polished and bordering on stilted. She was a perfect lady in her fine dress with her hands neatly folded in her lap. He sat there, puzzled and not sure what to make of it, nor given the time to. The other District Twelve Tribute was next and his attention automatically shifted. He gave him an appraising look for the first time.

The boy seemed ordinary enough; blonde, stocky, and cripplingly _nice _looking; not the type who had it in him to win a battle royal or choose to engage in one much less. He had been overshadowed by the girl before at the Reaping and the Parade, but here he had an upper hand; a superior stage presence. Peeta Mellark (as he had finally bothered to learn) was full of charm and confidence, easily winning over the host and the audience where his counterpart had been slightly shy and skittish. He was a deceptively clever one. With no reputation to precede him, he managed to steal the entire night with his own ammunition.

"Because she came here with me."

The audience set off in a collective gasp. A heart warming story of sacrifice and the tragedy of star-crossed lovers contained to one little-known District seemed too good to be true.

Too good to be true it was. He shrugged off his initial surprise and finished the remains clinging to the bottom of his glass tumbler. He had to give points for creativity but in the end it was, after all, just a gambit in this play of empty words.

* * *

The media dubbed her _'the girl on fire'_. It wasn't terribly creative of them, but it did ring true. Katniss was an unexpected rising star, inflaming the hearts of the people. But training was to begin the next day and reality would set in. She would be ranked by merit and not any measure of pageantry.

Before he went to sleep, he happened across a recap of hers playing on the late night Games broadcast. The Reaping, her fiery entrance at the Opening Ceremonies, the moment she graced the stage for her interview were all packaged together. With all of her facets tailored as one, the contrast was startling. She was an ever-evolving personality, shape shifting with each appearance. And yet her latest incarnation, as beautiful as it was, bored him. She had been a breath of fresh air; a novelty in his artificial world now tamed and primped into a Capitol citizen. It was the sort of push he would need to fall out of his fixation, if he wasn't already aware that like the confession, it was only a bid to appear more appealing.

It might have worked on a majority of viewers but he preferred her as he'd seen her first; a tough scrap of a girl with her head held high, when she had been… He wouldn't say 'pure'. It didn't suit her, one born amidst coal dust and hardship. 'Raw' was the word. That girl would still be there once she was stripped of Capitol influence in the way she spoke and dressed. Perhaps he would see it again in the Training Room.

The recap ended with some speculations and commentary from a news reporter, followed by a promise of strict updates of her progression in training and ranking. He turned off the tele-set; it was getting late and he was expected to rise early in the morning.

'She's becoming overexposed', he mused to himself as he laid his head back on the pillow, the darkness settling across the room. And it was true, because that night he dreamt of her.

* * *

**A/n: **Special thanks to Felicity Dream for helping me get a canon detail right. :)

Sorry it's been awhile since my last update! I wrote this chapter a million times before getting it right and I'll probably go back to edit it again. I've also been busy with my new Senekiss AU 'Smokescreen'. Check it out if you haven't yet!

-Chiisana inori


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